


The Last (Living) Beta

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (okay near-future but that's close enough), Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Human, Flashbacks, Gen, Genetic Disorders & Abnormalities, Humanstuck, M/M, Most liberal grandfather ever TBH, Old Age, POV Multiple, Physical Disability, and karkat is dead, dave is too old to give a shit, dirk's a lil butt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:39:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how Dave Strider and Karkat Vantas lived their own lopsided version of the American Dream, as told by a very, very old Dave Strider, to his grandson, Dirk.</p><p>((This began as a role inversion of my fic, Skid Marks, turned into some sort of strange science fiction dystopia for a few hours, and then ended up being this after about a week. I'm really not sure how it happened, but I hope you enjoy it.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: I reorganized the fic and cut it down to three chapters based on date. Chapter two now takes place on the night after Dirk's first visit. Chapter three is Dirk's second visit. _Italics_ indicate stories told by Dave. Line breaks indicate divisions between perspectives, such as transfers between Dave's stories or home videos.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day one of Dirk's meetings with his grandfather.

Dirk Strider—fifteen years old—finds himself in one of the least desirable situations he can possibly imagine. He finds himself being forced by his father, Broseph Strider, to go and entertain his fossil of a grandfather, Dave—who, by the way, he has never actually met until now.

Sure, he knows that it’s rather shitty of him to be so against visiting his grandfather. The man has somehow survived to the age of 99—which, considering the fact that he was born in the days when centennials were a rarity, is actually rather impressive. Aside from that, the man’s spent the last twenty years of his life living alone.

Not that it really matters to Dirk, though. He can be doing so many other things at this moment, after all. All his friends—his sister, Roxy, and his boyfriend, Jake—are having one hell of a time at the beach at this very minute. And, yet, here he is, being forced to spend his summer taking care of his super-senile grandfather.

Really, he’s not even sure if the old bastard will even know he’s here. For all he knows, Dave thinks he’s another member of hospice care crew. And, again, not that he cares; actually, he envies the home care people. At least they’re getting paid to act like the old fucker’s ramblings are intriguing in any way. _He_ isn’t. He’s just getting a front row seat to the asinine prattling of a person he’s never felt particularly close to and missing out on a summer of inevitable hilarity and fun.

“If you actually listen to the old man, you’ll figure out that the shit he throws down is actually pretty cool,” his father says, offering a wide smile as he shoves his son over the threshold of the house.

“You’re his son,” grumbles the teen, “Why don’t _you_ take care of him?”

“Because I have to make money to feed you, lil’ dude.” A smirk spreads across Bro’s face as he grabs his son by the front of his shirt and gently pulls him along.

First, they wander through the small sitting room—a small space with a scuffed hardwood floor and a long-since-broken coffee table that’s propped up with a few assorted books and an oddball Playboy magazine from fifty years ago. From there, they squeeze down a fairly wide but ultimately crowded hallway. Boxes of old adult diapers line the walls and gather dust; yet, as Dirk quickly notices, the beaten up family photos on the tables are all immaculately clean.

Then, finally, they emerge into a small family room. A dubiously stained sofa is shoved against the wall, just below a mass of crooked pictures. Using the widened arch that divided the room from the hallway as the front of the room, one could also say that the back wall is similarly covered in photos. Unlike the others, though, these are simply pinned up with thumbtacks or taped to the wall. To the right of these, against a wall with a small window situated at its far right corner, is a fairly large television with a decent—if not a bit outdated—sound system. And, directly across from that setup, is Dave Strider.

When the pair enters, he’s asleep. A bag of chips has since tipped over and crumbs are littered across the wrinkled fabric of his faded baseball shirt. Having long since lost any real interest in his own public image, he’s ditched the trademark Strider shades. Instead, a pair of thick, round glasses rest crookedly on the bridge of his nose.

Bro, meanwhile, surreptitiously grabs the bag of chips away from his father before waking him. “Hey. Asshole. I brought the newest addition to the asshole lineage over.”

Dirk suppresses a half-annoyed, half-embarrassed blush.

Dave jumps slightly. “What? You asking for me to entertain him or something?”

Bro shrugs. “Telling him some of the old stories would be perfectly fine by me,” he snickers. “I’ll come back when work’s over, ‘right?” With that much said, he begins to leave. He ruffles Dirk’s hair on the way out and comments, “Don’t be too hard on the old bastard.”

Dave shoots back his own loving, fatherly advice. “Don’t get your damned head caught up your ass again, son.”

“I’ll try not to.” The reply is followed shortly afterwards by the sound of the door closing.

And, at that moment, a startling realization hits Dirk Strider like a brick in the face. It dawns upon him that he is stuck with his completely batshit grandfather for at least the next twelve hours. Still, he can’t exactly ignore the guy. For one thing, Dave would certainly rat him out; and, aside from getting massive shit from Bro, he’d inevitably feel kind of guilty. After all, he knew that his grandfather never really got visitors. He and Bro live in a different state, and they had only come to Dave’s area for a six-month film shoot. All of Dave’s friends had long since died; and, really, Bro was the last family he had left.

So, Dirk figures he might as well try and hold some sort of conversation with Dave. He sets himself up a makeshift spot on the sofa—lays a blanket he’s brought from home over the questionable stains, drops his bag nearby, and plops down into the seat. The latter of these actions causes a loud cracking noise, which prompts a nervous hum from Dirk and a bemused snicker from Dave.

“Go easy on that thing, kid. It’s old as balls and it’s seen a lot of action,” comments the senior.

Dirk’s cheeks turn a vibrant shade of red in reply to this comment. “That’s fucking gross.”

Dave, however, still seems to like his joke. He hums contentedly to himself for a few minutes before fumbling with the remote and turning off the television. “Hey, kid.”

“Hm?”

“You want anything to eat or drink? I’ve got some soda and shit. Don’t tell your dad about it, though. He’d drop dead.” He punctuates his statement with a shrug before smirking and adopting a tone of voice that rather aptly replicates Bro’s speech when he’s angry. “‘Oh, shit, Dad, don’t eat that stuff. It’s so fucking bad for you.’”

Admittedly, the whole display is pretty amusing. Dirk lets a small snicker slip past his defenses. “I’ve got my own sodas with me. Bro told me I should take some with me so you didn’t have to keep them in your fridge. Something about being temptations.”

“Fuck that shit,” Dave grumbles. “I already have three dozen stashed away like a goddamned packrat.”

“So…” Dirk mutters. He scans the room, trying to find something to talk about. “Um…”

He looks through the pictures, gleaning some basic information from them. While he’s never actually met his other grandfather, Karkat, he knows who he is. He knows that Karkat is the one with the tawny skin—the man from whom his own father had inherited his characteristic silver eyes. Notably, Karkat is in more photos than anyone else.

And, as he goes through these images—following them as they hang, in rough chronological order—he picks up on a few things.

  1.        Karkat must’ve hated full-body photos, because most of the pictures have been cut off at or near the waist. Some of them even show signs of being purposefully defaced—undeniable evidence that, at some point, the remainder of the photo was ripped off.
  2.        Despite his general disdain for full-body photos, it’s still quite apparent that he had progressive health issues throughout his life. In even his earliest photos, he’s never seen standing without leaning against something—usually a pair of beaten up crutches. In most of the photos of him in his late teens early twenties, he sits in a low-back wheelchair. His last photos are of a barely recognizable man in a hospital bed with an assortment of life support devices crowded around him like morbid paparazzi.
  3.        This second realization supports the story his father had told him—of how Karkat knew he’d end up being autopsied and paid off one of his friends to rule the death as inconclusive. How he’d openly admitted to being born with the shitty end of the genetic stick; yet, he never told anyone the name or specifics of it.
  4.        If the multitude of odd and seemingly inexplicable photos are anything to go by, there might actually be some sort of entertainment value behind the stories. The inclusion of three framed mugshots seems to bolster this theory’s credibility.



All this considered, Dirk Strider is having as much of a change of heart as he possibly can. His resentment of his paternal grandfather has, at the very least, turned to a sense of mild respect and intrigue. He has not, however, reached a point at which he holds any sort of genuine interest in whatever comes out of his grandfather’s mouth.

Still, he knows that keeping his grandfather talking means keeping himself out of trouble. He doesn’t exactly want to listen to whatever sort of outdated tales he’ll inevitably hear; but, he doesn’t really have a choice. Aside from that, the old man has begun to cultivate a very poignant air of boredom about himself, and he certainly won’t hold back on saying as much when Bro asks him how the day went. So, Dirk bites the bullet. Or, rather, he takes what he feels will be equal to a bullet in the mouth, and he starts a conversation.

“Bro says you have a lot of interesting shit to say…” Dirk mutters. “I… um… Any particularly or legitimately interesting ones?”

Dave, in return, lets a surprisingly energetic laugh slip past his long-since-abandoned cool filter. “Wow, kid, just ramp up the enthusiasm to negative twelve, why don’t ya?” He folds his hands across his chest and sighs. “But, I don’t really have much else to do, do I? I’ve got jack shit to entertain you with, kid, so… How about this? Don’t tell your old man, but I have a pretty bitching stash of old video games and that sort of crap. You let me talk, I’ll let you take them home. Deal?”

Dirk pauses. He ponders the possibilities of this offer for barely a second before nodding. “Deal.” Having said this, he can’t help but notice the quiet voice in the back of his head saying that he’s jumped headfirst into more bullshit than he can imagine. Still, he continues, “So, what? You going to let me in on the apparent family story shit?”

“Like hell I am,” snickers Dave. “And you don’t even have to listen, though I’m sure you’ll get karma points or something if you do. But, really, all you have to do is sit your ass down on that sofa and look minimally interested, kid. I’m opening this shitty memory dam, and a whole lot of trash’s about to come flooding out.”

* * *

 

_Karkat and I met at this weird, isolated little place called Skaia Academy. It was a pretty decent sized boarding school with a reputation for being the place that kids who fucked up—despite being a bit fucked up themselves, in their own ways—went. I got sent there for beating the shit out of some guy whose name I don’t really remember. In my own defense, though, the bastard was trying to beat up John; so, I could’ve let him pummel the living hell out of my best bro or I could pummel the living hell out of him. Clearly, the latter of these two decisions was the best one._

_Karkat, as I later learned, was sent there for what could be summed up as his basic personality. He was always a loud, rude fucker, after all. He was the type of guy you’d yell something shitty at just to make him angry and then you’d run like hell to get away from him while listening to the shit he spewed out… If that makes any sense…_

_Anyhow, we both got transferred there at the beginning of our eighth grade year. The random housing lottery decided that the world needed another pair of jackasses and threw us into the same room. And it wasn’t even a nice room; it was a tiny basement hollow that always smelled like mold and piss._

_Thinking about it now, it’s kind of funny. We absolutely fucking hated each other. Karkat accused me of being a stuck up fake and I accused him of being a crotchety bastard with a twelve foot pole up his ass. He probably had all the rights to hate me, though, since I had this bad habit of smoking inside the room. And, since it was a basement room, it had no windows. Lovely smell, really—mold and piss and tobacco…_

* * *

 

“Hey, look, no offense… But do you have a point here or are you just kind of rambling?”

Dave Strider jumps slightly. He pauses, loses track of his original line of thought, and stares at his grandson with a look of mild annoyance. “Hey, you want those games or not? I’ve got some classics. A 3DS with a fuckton of great games on it is… Well… It’s somewhere around this house.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t even know where any of this shit is!?” groans Dirk.

“Basically,” Dave shrugs. “But, whatever. What type of shit do you want to hear, kid? I’m just kind of talking to be talking, if you know what I mean…”

Dirk sighs. He shrugs, takes off the pointy shades he always tends to wear, and sticks them into one of the pockets of his bag. “I don’t fucking know,” he grumbles. “How about you explain those framed mugshots?”

Much to Dirk’s surprise, Dave laughs. It’s another of those laughs that has so much energy behind it that it’s hard to think it’s coming from a man who’s nearly a century old. “Those? Well, they’re all from the same thing. I just grabbed an extra of me because I thought I looked damned fine in it.” He smiles nostalgically before continuing, “Yeah, sure, kid. I’ll tell you about that shit.”

Dirk nods and glances at the mugshots as Dave begins his story. He folds his arms expectantly across his chest and, oddly enough, he starts to feel like this visit might not be as bad as he thought it would. In fact, he might be able to enjoy this—not as much as he’d enjoy hanging out with his friends at the beach, of course, but…

* * *

 

  _I’m not exactly sure how old we were. I’d say at least twenty, seeing as Karkat’s got that ring on his finger in the mugshot. Not that it really matters. We still got arrested. Well… Karkat did. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. No, I can assure you that I was completely innocent. I was forcibly dragged into the whole affair by my asshole of a husband._

_The whole thing started innocently enough. I took him out for lunch. We had a gourmet meal at Subway. Big fucking whoop. We had a brief discussion of what the fuck we were going to do for the rest of the day before finally coming to the conclusion that we—the young, stupid bastards we were—should totally just go dick around for a while._

_And we did. We did some petty, asinine shit. We started by making fun of people’s cars. When that got boring, we decided to drive around for a while. Eventually, we landed in some hole-in-the-wall bar and ended up getting smashed out of our minds. Well… Actually… Only I got drunk. Karkat wasn’t really allowed to, seeing as it didn’t settle well with him or his medication._

_It kind of gets a little fuzzy from there… Karkat could’ve told it much better. All I know is that someone made some underhanded comment about how I only married Karkat because he had some decent money and a short estimated lifespan. Since that was a rather obvious lie, I replied by punching them in the fucking face._

_“You decked that fucker in the nose and blood just started sputtering out like a goddamn slasher film,” is how Karkat tells—Or… It’s how he used to tell the story. Usually, he accompanied it with dramatic hand motions or some other sort of ridiculous Vantas-style theatrics._

_Actually, Karkat ended up being the one to pull me off of the loose-lipped jackass. But I’d apparently managed to break the guy’s nose and bust open his lip before that happened; so, naturally, I was arrested._

* * *

 

“But you said at the beginning of this that you weren’t responsible,” Dirks interrupts, frowning. “You  _did_ punch that man in the face, which makes it pretty close to your responsibility.”

Dave sighs—a long, drawn out breath that drips with bygone bliss. “I was young and stupid. And I loved that asshole—I might not have said it much, but I loved that bastard. Sure, I got a strike on my already modest criminal record, but I wouldn’t change a fucking thing about it.” Here, he pauses. He runs his fingers through what’s left of his formerly golden blond hair—the stray wisps of silver-white. “I hope you get it someday, kid.”

“Get what?” mutters Dirk.

“There are some people in the world that you’d do damned near anything for.” A melancholy smile spreads across Dave’s face. It lingers for a few minutes before disappearing, replaced, instead, by a smirk. “So, what? You done with the story?”

“Not really,” Dirk admits shyly.

Dave snickers. “We got arrested and roughed up a bit. The end.”

“No, fuck, that’s not it, is it?”

“Hm. So you’re actually interested.”

“No!” Dirk snaps. “I just…” He pauses, sighs, and buries his hands in his pockets. “Okay, fine, I kind of am.”

“Of course you are. I’m the most interesting person in the world,” Dave snickers. “Really, though, kid, that’s it. Not much else to that story.”

“Oh.” A small frown flashes briefly across Dirk’s face. He glances up at the pictures once again, trying to find another that looks as interesting as the mugshots. Yet, all he really sees are snippets of memories that mean nothing to him. Sure, he sees the occasional photo of his father as a child—riding a steamboat, being held by a surprisingly gentle-looking Karkat, flinging a massive amount of spaghetti at the wall—but, otherwise, nothing else makes any sense to him. And, when Dirk Strider glances at his grandfather, he gets the feeling that Dave knows this.

At the very least, he’s got that smirk on his face. That sort of cocky parental smirk. “Look, if you really want to know, it’ll take a while. And we don’t really have to go in order. So…”

“What was he like?” Dirk suddenly interjects.

Dave frowns. He glances at his grandson for a moment with a look of complete confusion. Then, he begins to realize what the question means. “Karkat? Your dad didn’t tell you anything about him?”

“He said he was an unconventional guy when it came to raising kids.”

“Well, then, that’ll be our next story.” A quiet, somewhat sad chuckle punctuates this statement, and the melancholy smile returns. “But, first… You want anything to eat, kid? I’m going to go get myself a sandwich or something.”

“I… Not really,” Dirk mumbles.

Dave shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He tilts the adjustable recliner forward and springs to his feet with an amazing amount of ease and energy. If it weren’t for the fact that he walks at a steady one tenth of a mile per hour and uses a worn out wooden cane, he might even pass for someone half his age.

He disappears down the hallway, whistling some sort of odd old tune.

Dirk, meanwhile, continues to stare at the countless photos which adorn the walls.

* * *

 

After a while, Dave returns to the room. He’s prepared himself a rather sizable meal—a sandwich with three layers of assorted meats, two layers of cheese, and a proportionally miniscule amount of lettuce. A toothpick shaped like a sword is stabbed crookedly into the center of the sandwich, though it seems to be doing little to help it stay upright.

“How old are you again?” mutters Dirk, staring at his grandfather in awed confusion.

“Eh… I kind of lost track. Ninety something. Ninety nine? I don’t fucking know, dude.” With a wide, anticipatory grin, the eldest Strider sets his newly created carnivorous monstrosity on the hallway table beside his recliner. He settles into his spot quickly, tilts the chair back, and grabs the meal. “Why does it matter?”

Dirk shrugs. “Jake was asking me about it,” he mutters. “Not sure why.”

By this point, Dave has taken a sizeable chunk out of the sandwich. So, when he speaks, Dirk gets a front-row seat to negligibly chewed lunch—not that Dave even seems to notice or care about this. “Who’s Jake?” he smirks. “Your boyfriend?”

“Actually, yeah,” Dirk returns with his own smirk.

Dave, however, keeps his own smirk going. Clearly, he doesn’t care that his sarcastic assumption was true. If anything, he seems to find it amusing. He chews on the outlandishly large chunk of sandwich he’d bitten off. When he finally finishes, he hums thoughtfully to himself. “So… You asked some shit before I made this bitching sandwich, right?”

“Yeah. I asked about Grandpa Karkat and what he was like.”

Nodding, Dave Strider takes another bite of his sandwich. This one is much smaller and more reasonable than the last. He finishes it quickly. “He’d kill me for saying this, but he really was the perfect guy. At least… I thought he was. He was probably too loud and abrasive for some people, though. No… Not probably. Make that definitely.”

The elder Strider breathes a heavy sigh—one tinged with happiness, sadness, and nostalgia. “Karkat was… Well… He was something else. Loud, irritable, and all around no-nonsense type of guy. But, if you managed to get to him, he had a heard of gold. Slightly dirty gold, sure, but he was a good guy. Actually, he was the one who kept pushing for kids…”

* * *

 

_Karkat Vantas was as a whole, a stubborn asshole. He took absolutely no shit and gave out a lot of it. Fussy bastard, really. Liked things to be just so. And maybe it was partially due to the fact that he was constantly bugged by doctors telling him he had X or Y amount of time left before he’d drop dead. I mean, I’m sure that would stress anyone out. And he had a lot to worry about besides that. We had bills to pay and a house to maintain…_

_He was the type of guy who worked until it was done. I’d wake up sometimes and he’d be doing some sort of shit—usually working on shit for the studio I founded—the one Broseph now owns. And he’d be working in bed, too, like the showboating overzealous asshole he was. Sometimes, I’d let him be. Other times, I’d nudge him and tell him that he needed to go the fuck to sleep. Not that he ever did._

_For all that, though, he wasn’t exactly as confident as people took him for. I mean, sure, he could certainly bully himself to a position of power if he so pleased; but, instead, he stuck to a pretty menial and underappreciated job as a concept artist and creative director. And, to be honest, I think the worst of it was when we’d finally gotten all the work together for Broseph…_

* * *

 

“So… Am I, like, a legal grandkid or a legitimately blood-related one?” interrupts Dirk.

Dave smirks. He rolls his eyes, folds his arms across his chest, and says, “You’re a pretty full-blooded Strider, kid. I mean, we originally planned to collect the debt that my cousin, Rose, owed us; but, we were a bit late for that. So we ended up going the more expensive and less traditional route of using what they branded as Ectobiology.”

“And that means…?”

“We weren’t really sure,” Dave mutters. “We just agreed to try it. The way we understood it, they took genetic material from both of us, threw it in some sort of science blender to mix it, and then created it through further scientific bullshit in a lab.”

“Not getting any of that, gramps.”

“Neither did we, to be honest. The way they explained it to us was that we pay them, give them some genetic material, and they’d whip us up a baby. Throw some genes into an egg-shaped machine filled with some sort of biologic goo and a baby pops out nine months later. Seeing as you’re here, it worked like a charm.” To emphasize his statement, the elder Strider proudly folds his arms across his chest and smirks. “What? Broseph never told you this?”

“He did,” Dirk shrugs, “I just never really thought about it until now. And he told me a lot about Karkat, too, but—”

This time, it’s Dave’s turn to interrupt. He barges in with another of those surprisingly energetic laughs and another nostalgic grin. “Karkat’s the one who probably stars in most of the whacky childhood antics that Broseph remembers. I just did rough-housing and discipline.”

“Yeah, that’s the vibe I got from the stories, too,” mutters the younger of the two Striders. “According to Bro, he was a big, soft dork.”

Again, Dave laughs. “He really was. Always left disciplining the kids up to me… Kind of surprisingly, really; he never gave a fuck what he spewed out to adults when they pissed him off or did something wrong. But, around kids, he was actually pretty clean-cut. You’d’ve thought he was the epitome of manners and language if you only met him when we had Broseph with us.”

Dirk nods. As he tries to think of something to say, a loud yawn erupts from his conversational partner. He glances towards the noise and quirks his brow upwards. “You okay over there, gramps?”

“Yeah. And stop fucking calling me gramps, kid. I swear I’ll throw you out this damned window.”

“I’d like to see that happen."

“Oh, you’ll sure as hell see it happen, kid.” There’s a certain level of seriousness in Dave’s voice; yet, Dirk notices a very considerable amount of playful insincerity to it, too. Then, there comes an oddly sincere sigh. “Really, though, kid, I’m kind of tired. Mind if I take a nap or something?”

“It’s not even noon yet,” Dirk protests.

“Eh. I’m almost a hundred years old. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” He pauses, points to the drawer beneath the television stand, and yawns again. “You wanted to know more about Karkat? Go ahead and watch some videos. Karkat got them all organized just before… Well… They’re from oldest to newest. Grey duct tape on the label means Karkat was filming. I’m guessing you’re looking for the ones with red tape, where I was filming.”

With that matter of business taken care of, Dave doesn’t hesitate at all in getting himself comfortable. He pulls the faded afghan off of its perch atop the backrest of his chair and unfurls it over himself with a considerable amount of enthusiasm. Then, he reaches into the drawer of the table beside him and pulls out a pair of noise-blocking headphones. “If you get really bored, feel free to wake me up, kid. Also, you know, maybe at least tell me if the house catches on fire or something.”

Dirk nods, watching as Dave slips the headphones on and plugs them into a decades-old iPod. He sighs, checks his phone for updates from his friends, and finds none. So, out of both mild interest and an aversion to being bored out of his own mind, he sits down in front of the television stand and opens the drawer.

As promised, the contents have been organized. Each DVD is marked with a presumably appropriate piece of duct tape just above the titles, which are little more than pieces of masking tape with something scrawled haphazardly across them. Really, for as organized as the drawer seems, Dirk can’t help but feel like it hasn’t seen the light of day since it was last organized. As if to confirm this fact, he even finds a few dead bugs and a good amount of dust in the drawer.

Undeterred, he brushes away the thin layer of grime and flicks the dead bug—presumably some sort of beetle—so that it flies off to the abyss of whatever lay behind the media center. Then, he begins to look through the assortment of digitized memories.

His own morbid curiosity leads him to pluck the one DVD that doesn’t fit in with the rest. It’s jammed haphazardly at the very end of the drawer and enclosed within a cracked CD case. He holds it in his hands for a few minutes and stares at the crumpled piece of paper that’s been jammed into the slot meant for an informational insert. The year is written in fading pencil and, he notes, it matches the year his father has often given as the year of Karkat’s death.

Deep within him, there’s a quiet voice—one that urges him to put the tape down. But, he doesn’t. He plucks the disk from its case and plops it into the outdated video player, glancing at the title of the film as it loads.

“Karkat’s 79th”

* * *

 

The film opens with a zoomed-in image of Karkat. He’s been propped up by a formidable mountain of pillows and covered in at least three different blankets. His breathing is shallow and calculated—as if he’s having to consciously remind himself to do so. His chin is covered in tiny strands of grey stubble. And, as a whole, it’s pretty obvious that he’s not exactly in prime health.

Still, he manages to crack a weak smile at the camera before he comments, “Dammit, Dave. Shut that thing off.” His voice is little more than a strained whisper, and every other word seems to be punctuated by a pause as he catches his breath. “What the fuck are you doing? Turn it off, Strider.”

“It’s for posterity, dude,” chimes in a familiar voice. “Look, we got to have your lovely ass of a face on film as much as possible.” He speaks flatly, though there’s a certain enthusiasm and energy behind that flatness. Yet, beneath that, is a sense of sadness—the slightest wavering of his voice and the faintest hint of suppressed emotions. “Besides, it’s your surprise party, right?”

“I’m in the hospital, Dave. What type of goddamn surprise party is even possible in a hospital?” Karkat mutters. “I swear, Dave, your plans are either so boring they’ll work or they’re just so fucking outrageous that it’s almost laughable.”

“Almost?” sneers the man behind the camera.

“Yeah. Like how you’re almost crying right now. Turn that fucking thing off before I turn off for you, you goddamned bastard.”

“Never!”

“I will take this fucking hospital gown, roll it into a nice, tight rope, and strangle you, you fucking idiot.”

“Try me.”

Karkat pauses. He sighs and presses the call button on his hospital bed.

Then, the film briefly cuts out.

When the image returns, it’s pretty obvious that it’s a bit later in the day. In fact, it’s night. The curtains have been drawn in the room and the mountain of pillows removed so that Karkat is laid out on his back. A clear mask covers his mouth and nose, fogging with every breath out and clearing to reveal a rather distinctive frown with every inhale. The camera’s focus fades constantly, groping for any sort of clarity in the darkness of the room. Yet, the audio is crisp and clear.

It begins with a muffled noise—like someone trying to talk through a glass window. The words are garbled and strange; but, Dave seems to understand.

At least, he replies to the awkward noise. “Camera’s off, you picky asshole. I…”

Another round of muffled noises.

A pause.

Then, Dave speaks up. His voice is surprisingly soft and dripping with concern. “We’re not both going to fit on that bed, Karkat.”

After he gets a response, he sighs. Though he seems to be putting up an air of reluctance, the relief in his voice seems to indicate that he feels otherwise. “Fine, then, I’ll hold your hand like I’m taking you to goddamn first grade or something.”

Without much notice, the video ends.

* * *

 

Dirk, by now thoroughly uncomfortable with his decision to go ahead and watch the film, is quick to eject the disk. He fumbles with it, shoves it back into its case, and jams the case back into the drawer.

It’s not that he’s worried he’s seen something he shouldn’t have that worries him; rather, it’s the distinct knowledge that he probably watched one of the last days of his grandfather’s life on film. And, then, there’s the small part of him that feels like he’s intruded in on a private moment. One the happened two decades ago, yes; but, a private one nonetheless.

He sighs and searches for anything to take his mind off of the topic. He scans the titles of the rest of the videos, pulls the most innocent-sounding one, and jams it hastily into the open disk tray.

“Beach Trip #Whatever” is scrawled across the tape on the side.

* * *

 

The home video opens with Karkat—probably in his early twenties—leaning heavily on a pair of crutches. While everyone around him wears clothes that seem to indicate that it’s not really beach season and is really much closer to fall, his grey shirt is marked with a sizable area of sweat.

Nonetheless, it seems that time changed little about him, because the words that come out of his mouth are remarkably similar. “Turn that thing off, Strider.”

“Aw, come on, dude. Cheer up. It’s our honeymoon.”

“It’s fall. It’s fifty degrees outside. And you brought me to the fucking beach, you inflated jackass!” groans an exasperated Karkat.

“Damn. You could at least act like you’re happy,” sighs Dave.

Karkat rolls his eyes at the camera before shoving it away. “Fuck you. I’m going to get some goddamned Dairy Queen. At least ice cream doesn’t talk back like a snide little fuck with a hot air balloon for a head.” Beneath the animosity of the words is a distinct sense of bemused annoyance. There’s a slight sort of sing-song tone to his voice that points to him being more pleasantly annoyed than angry.

And Dave, in return, puts up a similar act. “What happened to it being fifty fucking degrees outside!?” he goaded, turning the camera back to Karkat.

By this point, though, he’s only made it a few yards. He leans against a nearby light post and catches his breath; yet, he continues to engage in asinine banter with Dave. “I am a grown adult and I can do what I fucking please, Strider.”

“Well, then, go get me some ice cream, too.” The camera shakes slightly before a hand is shoved out in front of the lens. A whopping one dollar and three cents rests in a pale palm. “There. That should cover it.” As he says this, Dave approaches Karkat.

Then, without warning, the camera rapidly shifts. It turns to face a bewildered Dave Strider before a voice from behind speaks up. It’s quite obviously Karkat’s, though he’s adopted a fake Australian accent. “And this is the rare Strider. What a strange breed of donkey. I mean, really, mate, this is one fucking weird ass.”

“Take that back!” Dave’s only half-serious cries are met with uproarious laughter from the man behind the camera. A small grin spreads across his face as he lunges forwards.

Then, there’s a muffled thud. More laughter from Karkat accompanies the image of Dave—sprawled out on the ground with his face in a patch of wet grass. “You’ve gotta stay extra aware when you’re dealing with the Strider. It’s a very ferocious variety of wild ass.”

Dave, meanwhile, rolls over so that he’s facing upwards and laughs. He stumbles to his feet, snatches the camera back, and mutters under his breath. What he says, though, is just muffled enough to be indiscernible.

And, yet again, the video ends.

* * *

 

Yet again, Dirk Strider can’t help but feel like he’s intruded on a personal moment. More than anything, though, he can’t get rid of the odd sensation of knowing that he’s watching footage of a long-dead man living his normal life.

He can’t distance himself from the situation enough to laugh at what most other people would probably see as some light-hearted bantering between two newlyweds. Instead, he thinks of his own father—of how Bro so often tells him of how great  _his_ fathers were. He thinks of the stories he’s heard of how the two lived their own version of the American dream, only for it to come to a crashing halt.

And, to be honest, he feels… strange.

He shakes himself out of the daze he’s in, though, long enough to turn off the television and rummage through his bag. He pulls out his handheld video game—on which he is currently shaping his Animal Crossing village—and buries himself in a digital world of bright colors and talking animals.


	2. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night after Dirk's visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello, the request was for extra emotion, right? No? Oh. Well. Whatever. It happened anyhow.

By the time Dave Strider wakes up, the clock at the end of the hallway is ringing to indicate that the time is roughly three in the afternoon. A note is pinned to his blanket and, once again, he finds himself alone.

He heaves a heavy sigh and glances at the message. From what he can glean, Dirk was picked up by Broseph an hour or two ago. Apparently, part of the set caved in and filming ended up getting cancelled until early tomorrow morning. It’s a bit disappointing; but, Dave supposes it’s for the best. After all, he’s been asleep for at least five hours.

Now, though, he’s alone. The house is devoid of life—save, of course, for himself and some stray bugs.

_What time is it?_

Dave reaches into his pocket and pulls forth a familiar pocket watch. He runs his thumb across the silver top. At one point, it bore an intricate engraved design with the date that he and Karkat married in the center. Now, though, that engraving has long since rubbed off. Time and use has worn the watch’s casing smooth. When the watch is opened, though, it’s pretty obvious that it’s been well-cared for over the years. Its golden watch hands still move as smoothly as they did on the day it was made; the glass cover over the watch face is cleaned to an impeccable shine.

3:14.

He shrugs, closes the watch, and puts it back into his pocket before grabbing his cane and staggering to his feet. A small part of him urges him to go fix the grandfather clock in the hallway; but, the overwhelming majority of his consciousness is of a firm belief that fixing the time will only last a few hours.

Instead, he decides that the most logical thing to do right now would be to check the mailbox. So, he shuffles down the hallway and into the living room, where, not much to his surprise, he finds a familiar sight. A familiar man in his mid-forties—a person he knows is neither real nor even alive at this point—sits in the armchair by the door. The slightest hint of frown lines are beginning set on his tawny features and his thick, formerly black hair is beginning to turn grey.

And, while Dave knows that this person isn’t there, he still enjoys having one-ended discussions with whatever happened to be there. (Which, quite often, is nothing at all.) “Nice day today, Kar,” he mutters. As usual, he uses the names that he once used only in absolute private—the odd little nicknames that were certain to get under his husband’s skin. “Well, you’d hate it. You’d say it’s too fucking hot, wouldn’t you?”

The old man chuckles to himself as he opens the door and rummages through his mailbox. He flips through the envelopes—mostly spam mail and a steadily dwindling stream of letters from fans.

“Nothing much,” he sighs, throwing the entire stack onto an ever-growing pile of unopened mail. “Some fan mail… Not much fun without you, though.”

He pauses, is greeted by a long stretch of silence, and sighs. A part of him wants to get closer to Karkat. But, he’s learned his lesson. There’s no way he can do that without breaking the perfect image in his mind. He’s been though that before—the once daily confusion of going to run his fingers through that familiar, soft black hair, only to find himself alone again. Now, he keeps his distance, even if it is hard.

“You’ve been showing up less, lately,” he grumbles as he sits down on the sofa against the back wall of the main room. “We’ve still got that deal, though. I ain’t kicking the proverbial bucket until I hit a hundred. And then, if there is some sort of afterlife, you can kiss my goddamned ass when I get there.”

Here, he pauses. The silence closes in on him; it lasts much less time than the first stretch.

“You used to talk to me, you know…” By now, he knows he’s talking just to fill the silence. Still, he also knows that the words he’s saying hold some meaning. At least, they mean something to him. “And I used to tell you to shut the fuck up… Now, though… I kind of wish I hadn’t, y’know?”

 _Do something_ , he wills himself. _Do anything_. He stumbles to his feet once more and wanders down to the broken old clock in the hallway. Another lesson he’s learned over the years—talking too long only drives him up the wall. No one talks back.

Normally, he keeps himself busy. He cleans the photos and watches television. Now, though, it’s different. Now, he can’t help but forgo fixing the clock once again; instead, he walks back into the living room and lowers himself back onto the couch. He looks up. Now, the seat is empty. A fine layer of dust rests on everything—on the unused stairway, the windowsill, the coffee table, and the electric wheelchair parked awkwardly in the corner.

“Twenty years,” murmurs Dave. “Twenty fucking years!”

A feeling rises in his chest—a sense of anger that he thought he’d long since conquered. Now, though, it’s back. And, now—unlike then—he doesn’t fight it.

“You just had to do it, didn’t you? Had to go ahead and die and leave me here with fucking nothing but this fucking awful house.” He staggers to his feet for a third time and picks up a porcelain crab figurine—a tiny, ugly little trinket that he’d bought for Karkat on their honeymoon.

And, as he looks at it, all he feels is a pointed sense of disgust. It wells up inside him until the only thing he can do is smash the figurine against the floor. “We made a deal, you bastard! We made a fucking deal! Eighty. We’d both make it to eighty. And you fucking didn’t.”

This continues for quite a while. He roams though the house, picking out random mementos of his long-dead husband and smashing them against the floor. An antique tea set that he and Karkat bought for shits and giggles. A crystal heart. A carousel music box. All of it falls from his grasp and breaks against the floor.

Eventually, though, it fizzles out. The anger subsides and the realization of what he’s done hits him like a bullet. He heaves a tired sigh and sits down on the old double bed—the one whose mattress he hasn’t had the heart to replace because it still has indents from where Karkat used to sleep—and begins to pry shards of glass from where they’ve embedded themselves in the soles of his shoes.

“Please,” Dave mutters. “Please don’t leave again, Karkat. It’s so quiet around here… So fucking empty.”

Another sigh escapes him. He gives up his attempt at picking the glass from his shoe and allows himself to collapse against the worn out mattress. He turns over on his side like how he always had before—one hand shoved sneakily beneath Karkat’s pillow so that he’d know when the stubborn asshole went to sleep, his position set up to perfectly rest against his.

He closes his eyes and, for a while, he can see him. He can see the man he married seventy years ago, when they were both little more than two young adults with a terrible movie idea and empty wallets. And he talks to him as he drifts off to sleep.

He tells him of Dirk—the grandson he’d always wanted—and how he plans on finally handing over that old gift the next time he sees the kid. He talks about his own life—the daily monotony of waking up, maintaining the house, and going back to sleep. And, eventually, he breathes a quiet “goodnight” as he falls asleep.


	3. Crowdfunded Filmmakers Anonymous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk's third visit. How the iconic, ironic Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff franchise began.

The set is reconstructed overnight. The next morning, Broseph Strider returns to work. Dirk Strider returns to his grandfather’s house.

No one takes any notice of the happenings of the night before. The broken pieces have been thrown away and neither Bro nor Dirk pay enough attention to their surroundings to notice anything amiss.

“So, gramps?”

“I swear to God I will clock you in the damned face if you keep calling me that,” Dave laughs. “What?”

“How did you even meet Karkat?” As he speaks, Dirk examines his odd gift. He studies the almost childish all-capital scrawl across the clapboard. He takes in the fact that he’s holding a piece of cinematic history. “I mean… You guys seemed to just annoy the shit out of each other.”

“Oh, we did,” snickers the bemused old man. “There were times when I swore I would just strangle the fucker before he naturally died. But, it was all worth it. At least, I think it was. I’d like to think he did, too…”

“Yeah?” Dirk mutters.

“So, what? You want to know how we met? I tried telling you that story yesterday and you said it was boring, kid.” Here, a wry grin creeps onto Dave’s face. It’s that type of smile—that shitty parental smile—that begs to be validated.

The younger Strider sighs. His cheeks briefly light up with a distinct blush before he forces it to subside, saying, “Well… Yeah… But I’m kind of interested now…”

“Of course you are,” snickers the eldest Strider. “It’s actually a long story, but I’ll trim it down so that it ain’t quite as bad.”

* * *

 

_Like I said last time I tried to tell this story, we met at a boarding school. Karkat was sent after attempting to beat the shit out of the kids at his school and I was sent for beating the shit out of some bastard who bullied my friend, John, at my school. If he were still around today, by the way, that particular friend would be your great-uncle John._

_Anyhow, since we both got shipped out for similar reasons, Karkat and I were put together as roommates. And, when we first met, we absolutely hated each other._

_“Fucking fake,” that’s what Karkat used to say about me. He thought I had too much ego and not nearly enough legitimate personality._

_I, meanwhile, had an admittedly shittier reason for hating him. To be completely honest, I didn’t like how damned crowded he made the room. I mean, it was an accessible room and all, but it was pretty small once you got his shit in. And, to be really honest, my main thing was that I didn’t want people knowing I was rooming with the one unlucky middle-school bastard who stuck out the most._

_Yeah, I admit it, I was a pretty shitty kid. Really, though, most people are when they’re in middle school._

_Anyhow, when we came back from winter break, he’d apparently had a nice little dose of back surgery. He came in with the big plastic brace and a whole slew of new painkillers. Though, if there’s one thing I admired from day one about that bastard, it was that he had some damned good pain tolerance._

_Everything has a limit, though, and, apparently having his spine forcibly jammed into a more proper alignment was his. And, yes, even my stubborn, shallow hatred of the asshole had its limits. And it turns out that limit was seeing how damned pitiful he got when he couldn’t keep up with all the schoolwork._

_See, his parents were actually concerned about him. They called constantly and fussed over how quickly his grades were falling. And he hated it, too, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. They sent him back too soon, really. I mean… Fusing together five chunks of spine isn’t something that happens overnight._

_Within three weeks, he was drowning in work. I came back from class and found him high off his ass on pain medications. And, for the first time since we’d met, he spoke to me. He told me how damned frustrated he was about the whole thing. “A fucking massive agglomeration of absolute bullshit,” he called it._

_Long story short, we kind of ended up stuck together after that. I didn’t want word that I’d let him sob all over me to get out; he didn’t want anyone to know he’d gotten high off prescription painkillers. So, we made a deal. I’d bring him his schoolwork, explain to the teachers that he was recovering from major surgery, and convince the staff to stop being assholes. In return, since he was the better artist, he’d teach me some legitimate art techniques._

_And it just kind of grew from there. Eventually, we realized that our mutual hatred was more akin to misplaced admiration. We bonded over stupid, irrelevant things. He thought my bad art was funny; I thought the corny romance stories he read were funny. After about two months, we made another deal. He would write the most terrible story he could think of, and I’d draw it. Together, this would clearly make the most beautiful exhibition of human achievement in the world…_

* * *

 

“Isn’t this the origin story of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff?” interjects Dirk.

“Well,” Dave snickers, “Ain’t you just an observant little shit?”

The younger Strider’s eyes widen in amazement. “So… You both wrote that…?”

“We were younger than you, kid,” Dave announces proudly. “We published it online, gathered a small following, and started dating. Eventually, we got married in Karkat’s backyard and started a Kickstarter for the film a few days later.”

“So, then, how did making the film go?”

Again, Dave responds with a quiet snicker. “It went pretty well. Really, the whole thing went without a hitch. Not that I expected anything less. Karkat directed it; I was just the audio editor and obligatory cool co-producer.”

A quiet sigh escapes Dave. He folds his arms across his chest and smiles. “Funny, really. It started as a shitty dare. ‘I bet that film wouldn’t make enough money for me to buy the cheapest brand of paper to wipe my ass with,’ Karkat had said one night. And, naturally, I’d replied otherwise. I set up the Kickstarter and, somehow, we got enough money to create our own dinky little shit-hole of a studio.”

“So… What was it like working with and living with Karkat? Because the rumors online say that he was one of the biggest jerks in the entertainment industry,” Dirk asks. As per usual—and as per what his father has always taught him—he doesn’t sugarcoat the topic. He takes the most upfront approach and hits the nail on the head with his first swing.

Dave, in return, shrugs. “He was an asshole. Yeah. I hated him sometimes; he hated me sometimes. That’s what makes love interesting, kid. You’ve got to want to rip their throat out from time to time, or else it’s nothing but some meaningless romance.” He pauses briefly before posing his next question, “So, you like the series?”

“Well, yeah, it’s the family legacy,” Dirk shoots back.

“Then I’ve got something for you, kid.” The older of the two Striders smirks. He opens the drawer of the table beside him and pulls forth a package.

A bright, candy red ribbon adorns the present and pins a DVD to the silver wrapping paper.

And, as the package leaves Dave’s grip, a very distinctive air of sadness suddenly springs from the normally cheerful (if not mildly inappropriate) old man as he explains in a strangely hushed voice, “Think of this as a gift from Karkat, because that’s really what it is. I had nothing to do with it and… Really… If you don’t mind, I’m going to leave the room so you can watch the video.”

He heaves a melancholy sigh and staggers to his feet, wandering out into the hallway before turning briefly back towards his grandson, “Call me when you’re done. I just… I filmed the video. I don’t need to see it again. But, it’d be pretty damned shitty of me to hide it from you. Because Karkat was determined as fuck to film that little video, and he’d probably rise from the dead and kick my ass if I didn’t.”

Dirk nods. He watches as his grandfather shuffles into the living room. He puts the DVD onto the tray as the old man begins to mutter to no one in particular and, after a few seconds, the video loads.

* * *

 

The Karkat presented in this video is neither the vivacious young twenty-something from the honeymoon footage nor the tired old man of his final video. Rather, he’s somewhere in between. By appearance alone, he seems to be in his mid-seventies; and, while there’s certainly a great deal of energy left in him, it’s obvious that it’s starting to fade.

He’s propped up in bed by a few pillows and an oddly familiar afghan is wrapped around him, covering everything below his shoulders. Still, he seems pretty upbeat—or, rather, about as upbeat as Karkat could ever superficially seem. Hi brow isn’t quite as furrowed as it usually is. His frown isn’t as pronounced. And, perhaps most surprisingly of all, his voice lacks its usual sarcastic bite. Rather, it’s soft and calm—more like the voice that would fit perfectly on a children’s television network.

Certainly, he knows that the video he’s making would eventually go to someone of some age, and he was determined to make it as close to family-friendly as possible as he could get.

“We’re on, dude.” The first voice in the video isn’t actually Karkat’s. Rather, it’s undeniably the voice of Dave Strider. Unlike usual, though, he quickly falls silent and allows his husband to take over.

And Karkat doesn’t hesitate a second to do just that. He offers the camera an oddly serene grin—the sort of smile that people give to babies when they think they’re cute—and begins to speak. “Presumably, if my worthless husband actually follows his damned instructions for once, this video will be shown to my future grandchildren. If that’s not the case, though, then feel absolutely free to stick this piece of digital trash into the microwave and heat it to a toasty, dangerous temperature of your choosing. I’d recommend turning it on high for five minutes; that’s just enough time to release all those majestic, toxic fumes and destroy the entire thing _at the same time_.”

Apparently amused by his own joke, Karkat indulges in a brief snicker of laughter. “Really, though,” he adds, “Don’t do that. That’s a terrible idea. So, now that that’s out of the way, I guess I can start saying what I really started this whole thing to say.

“And, first and foremost, I want to say hello to whoever it is watching this. Hopefully, my son—who is just about as worthless as my husband—has finally passed my genes along and created a new Vantas… I mean… Strider. Well… Really, kid, you can have either name. Or just take both of them, if that’s the type of thing that keeps your boat afloat.” He shrugs, sighs, and mutters something under his breath before continuing. “Anyhow, I probably won’t be around when this video is being shown for the first time. And that’s the whole reason I made this video.

“It’s also why I took a rather negligible but still very well-meant amount of time out of my not-so-busy schedule to wrap this gift for you. Hopefully, you’re being raised twenty times better than Dave or I ever were—and, since we presumably raised your father, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you are.”

Here, Karkat offers another oddly gentle smile. “Think of what’s in this box as a gift from your Grandpa Karkat to you, okay? Oh, and, don’t let your father have it. Trust me on this one. He’s going to want it.”

Without much warning, the video cuts out.

* * *

 

What Dirk Strider never realized was that, as the video was nearing its end, his grandfather had managed to sneak back into the general area.

In fact, as the video cuts out, Dave Strider is leaning against the doorframe. His hands are buried in his pockets, the edges of his lips tugged into a confident grin, and his glasses slightly lower than they should be on the bridge of his nose.

He watches as Dirk unwraps the gift and smiles as the item is revealed. And, judging from Dirk’s stunned reaction, it’s something that certainly isn’t going to waste.

“So, kid,” Dave asks, “I’m guessing you like it?”

Dirk jumps slightly at the sudden intrusion, though he still responds with an eager nod. “Is this the real thing?” he mutters.

“Hell yeah it is,” Dave laughs. He wanders up to the sofa and takes a seat next to his grandson before gingerly taking the gift—the clapperboard used for the first take of the first scene of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff’s debut movie. He turns it over in his hands and sighs thoughtfully. He notes that it seems a bit heavier than he last remembered it being. And, perhaps, that’s because of all the memories he had to back its physical existence; or, maybe, it was just age. Either way, the shoddily made wooden board certainly brings to mind a massive slew of memories. “We had enough money to mock up our own little shit version of one of those fancy digital ones that were standard, and this was what we got. Karkat wanted to save it, being the sentimental bastard he was, and we ended up making two. This one was actually the nicer of the two; he wanted the one that would last longer.”

Dirk, meanwhile, remains completely awestruck. “Holy shit.”

“You know, kid, that wasn’t even the shot that made it into the final…”

“But it was the first shot of the film,” retorts the younger Strider.

“True.” The elder Strider nods before glancing out the window and noticing a familiar approaching car—a beaten up old van with the Strider Studios logo emblazoned on its side. “And it seems I was just in time giving this shit to you. Looks like Broseph’s here to pick you up. I’d suggest you tuck that little gem back into the box and not take it out until the nosy bastard’s a good distance away from it.”

Dirk responds with a grin. He gently slides the beaten up clapperboard back into the box and tucks said box under his arm as he departs. “You know, gramps, I have to admit that you’re pretty cool.”

“Of course I am,” declares Dave, “I’m Dave fucking Strider!”

With that said, he follows his grandson out into the main room. He watches as the youngest and newest Strider bounds eagerly towards the van he and Karkat had purchased together so many years ago; and, as it pulls away—honking as a sign of appreciative farewell—he can’t help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDEK. I headcanon Karkat as being one of those really foul-mouthed people when he's around adults but he knows how to act around kids. I mean, really, I think he'd be a p big family guy. Bonus headcanon that he'd probably join the PTA and be a pretty stereotypical soccer mom. Well, soccer dad, but you get the idea.


	4. I'm Just Borrowing These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night after the second visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn I've been sitting on this one for a while.

On Dirk Strider’s laptop screen is an image of Dave Strider—perhaps in his early forties, his golden blond hair beginning to grey and thin out. A wide, mischievous grin is spread across features that are only just beginning to show some signs of age. Shallow crow’s feet branch from the corners of his eyes. Still, by the way he speaks and holds himself, it’s obvious that he’s nowhere near the lackadaisical old man he’s become in the many years since the film was made.

“I got one of those new Microcameras in the mail. The little things you can clip to your shirt or whatever. Look like little lapel pins,” the man snickers, his eyes focused on what was presumably the lens of the camera. “Karkat’s not real big into being on film, so I figured I might as well try one of these out. Never going to get much natural shit out of him otherwise, y’know?” A small grin flashes across Dave’s face before the camera is rapidly rotated and rearranged. The image spins erratically for a few minutes.

When the motions finally stops, the focus is on a slightly older Karkat—a man whose face is beginning to show the same signs of age as his husband’s and whose formerly black hair is now streaked with patches of grey. He’s laid himself flat on the floor and happens to be facing a toddler with thick blond hair.

“How’s our genetic progeny doing, Kar?” says the voice behind the camera.

Karkat, in return, breathes a huff of annoyance before turning his silver gaze upwards, presumably towards Dave’s. “I thought we agreed to stop calling Broseph our ‘genetic progeny,’” he grumbles.

“You did. I didn’t.” There’s a type of singsong told-you-so lilt behind the reply. A friendly goading.

“We’re raising a baby, not breeding stock, you…” Karkat pauses. His vocal volume drops dramatically as he utters the final portion of his commentary, “…fuckwit.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be.” Despite his commentary, Karkat offers the smallest hint of a smile. Then, he turns his attentions back to the toddler. “Don’t bother with the blond one. He’s the bad dad. I’m the good one. You got that?”

After a few moments, the toddler nods.

Karkat snickers. “You’ve got it, kid. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

“Yet?”

“Have you taken a look in the mirror lately?” Karkat hums, never bothering to lift his gaze to meet his husband’s. Instead, his gaze is still locked intently on the toddler—who, by now, was offering him a plastic phone. “Now, Dave, if you could kindly shut up for a minute, I have an important call to take.”

“What a loser,” Dave snickers.

Karkat, meanwhile, takes the phone and, with what seems to be a great deal of effort, he shoves himself into a sitting position. “Yeah?” he grunts as he cautiously rights himself, leaning a good portion of his weight against the nearby coffee table. “Hm? Dave Strider is a dimwitted buffoon with nary a civilized bone in his body? Why, yes, I’ve noticed. I— Oh! I’ll tell him. I’ve told him before. Thank you, sir.”

With this said, Karkat handed the phone back to Bro.

Satisfied, the toddler waddles off-screen to pursue different adventures.

(Certainly, Dirk couldn’t blame Bro. Watching two grown men acting like they were still in their honeymoon phase wasn’t exactly a particularly interesting thing for most people to be doing.)

The camera shifts slightly before coming to rest across the floor from Karkat. “So, my lovely dumbass, did you think this through or…?”

“Think what through?” The inner ends of Karkat’s thick black brows press against one another, each half seeming to meld together into a singular furrow of confusion. “The fuck are you going on about now, Strider?”

“You’re on the floor. Did you plan on this or…?”

Karkat shrugs. He waves his hand dismissively. “Are you implying that you think I’m uncoordinated enough to have landed flat on my ass? Because this was planned.” He gestures to something not visible to the camera and shrugs once more.

Dave, in return, can be heard sighing. “That’s not my point, you shithead…”

The video cuts out. A few moments of silence precede the beginning of the next bit of footage.

* * *

Dirk pauses the video and looks down at the case in his hands.

“Shitmachine I” is scrawled across the masking tape in red, though it’s covered slightly by fading pencil that reads, “The asshole means to say baby.” He taps his fingers pensively against the plastic cover before reluctantly hitting the play button.

* * *

The video opens with an image of a thoroughly dazed Karkat sprawled out on the floor. His brows are furrowed in confusion and, seeing as Bro is presumably asleep or somewhere else, he reverts back to his usual verbal habits. "What the fuck just...?"

He's interrupted by a surprisingly flat answer from Dave. "Pretty sure you fell." The camera moves slightly, as if the person behind it is shrugging. A pale hand comes into view. It's extended towards the dazed thirty-to-forty year old. "You feeling okay?"

"Dandy." The answer is neither completely sincere nor entirely sarcastic. "I... Um... Fuck." Karkat reaches out and grabs onto the outstretched hand. He teeters uncertainly on his feet as he's helped up from the ground. When Dave's grip is released, he begins to fall again.

Dave stops him. "Shit!" He mutters, bearing all of Karkat's weight on his shoulder. The camera moves as he staggers.

"Watch it," counters Karkat. He pushes Dave away, only to end up falling back against him for support. "Okay. That's not working."

"You think?" Dave helps Karkat to the sofa, then sprints around the corner. He kneels down beside Bro, and speaks to him in what might just be the most gentle voice possible for him. "Hey, buddy, you want to go on a little field trip?"

The toddler version of Bro nods, though he's obviously not aware of what this field trip is for.

Immediately after this response, Dave scoops up Bro, and the video cuts.

* * *

The next clip begins in a hospital. Bro seems completely content playing with what appears to be two oversized LEGO blocks. He sits in Karkat's lap, while Karkat tries to explain to him that he's trying to put the blocks together upside-down.

"You want to give Dad the blocks? Hm?" Karkat whispers, offering his empty hand forward.

After some consideration, Bro surrenders his toys.

Karkat demonstrates how to assemble them, breaks them apart, and hands them back. When Bro successfully clicks the two together, he beams with pride.

Dave, meanwhile, laughs. "He's put together some plastic bricks. Stop looking like he won the Nobel Peace Prize."

"I will act however I please," taunts Karkat, his face belaying only the slightest hint of insincerity. "I am on ordered bed rest, so you can't antagonize me today, Satan."

"Whatever. You'll be fine. We both know you're playing this up for drama. Isn't he, Bro? Tell Karkat he's just being a drama king."

Prodded by Dave's commentary, the toddler nods.

"And I win!"

"You win the prize for the world's biggest idiot, yeah."

* * *

Again, the video cuts. When it returns, the date in the corner indicates that a month or so has passed. Offscreen, Bro babbles happily about various topics. His voice is muffled, but it's accompanied by another, unknown male voice. (Dirk can only assume it's the fabled John Egbert, or Uncle John.)

Onscreen, the camera seems to have been mounted on a tripod. Karkat, now seated in a sporty low-backed wheelchair, looks to be his usual disgruntled self. Dave, meanwhile, continues his role as narrator. "So, he's finally been cleared to come home!"

"Yeah, after way too many useless tests," Karkat grumbles.

"Better safe than dead, dude."

In response, Karkat merely scoffs.

"Well, he's fine. We've gotten a lot of fanmail hoping you feel better soon, by the way."

For a brief moment, the shell cracks. A rare, genuine smile crosses Karkat's face. However, it's offset by his commentary. "It's because the fans are actually nice."

Dave snickers.

The video cuts.

The disk ends.


	5. Things Left Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow let's see if I can finish THIS

_It's complicated. No one is too sure what was wrong with Karkat; he never let anyone know. His parents cared for him to almost disgustingly extreme levels, yeah, but he ended up alone pretty early on._

_His parents were killed in a car crash shortly after we got out of college. He didn't talk too much about it. I'm not sure he ever really gave it much thought, really. He had a set of goals, and he'd be damned if he kicked it before he finished them all._

_Thinking about it, that was probably one of his biggest regrets. He died before he could see you. He didn't miss you by much, though._

_Anyhow, I'm rambling. What was the question?_

_Karkat's health, right? We all had a hunch, but I can't be fucked enough to remember what we all thought it was. He was just a weak guy. Physically, not personality-wise. If his personality matched his health, he could probably still beat Bro in a wrestling match right now._

* * *

Here, Dave pauses. He examines the video in his hands and, after a long pause, he seems to remember something. He snaps his fingers. "These were before he started using his first chair full time."

"He's using it earlier in plenty of the photos," counters Dirk, pointing incredulously to the wall of framed memories.

"He used it often, but he kept on being a stubborn bastard for as long as he could." Dave heaves himself out of his armchair, then pauses. He takes a moment to catch his breath, then uses his cane to nudge a few photos from their spot on the wall. He catches them before they hit the ground, then sits beside his grandson, on the sofa.

The first photo only shows Karkat. By Dirk's estimates, he's in his early thirties. His arms are folded against his chest, and crutches dangle from the crooks of his arms. His shoulder leans against the nearby brick wall, and it seems to be bearing all of his weight. His brows are furrowed, and his mouth seems to be slightly open.

* * *

_Everyone knew he was just being a fucking huge, stubborn stick in the mud. He was getting winded every other step, and his breathing was getting harder. An honest, no-shit description would be that he sounded like a broken desk fan._

_We went on a trip to celebrate the news of Bro's impending... I'm not sure what the hell you'd call it. Incubation? Growth? No skin off my wrinkled ass._

_We went to Pennsylvania, mainly to the Amish tourist trap areas. I wasn't real big on it; I'd rather waste money driving in circles in a fucking desert, but it was on Karkat's bucket list._

_He spent most of the first day in bed. It was hotter than Satan's hardened clay dick, and heat had a way of getting to him. Fucked with his breathing and made his joints ache. Cold did, too, but that's not what we're talking about now._

_On the first night, I woke up to something that sounded a whole lot like shooting a toilet with a BB gun. Naturally, I kicked my tired ass into gear and sprinted in. Kar was on the floor, sporting a nasty new set of bruises on his chest and arms, and understandably dazed._

* * *

Now, Dave pauses. He taps his finger against the glass over the photo, towards a dark spot on Karkat's right elbow. "You can see one here."

Dirk nods.

The photos continue. The next in the sequence is in a cracked frame, and the picture, itself, is wrinkled and battered.

Three people occupy the field. Karkat is in the center, seated in the wheelchair from the video. An infant Bro sits in Karkat's lap. Flanking the two are Dave and a man Dirk can only assume is John.

"The day we picked up Bro was rough, and John was there to help." To emphasize this, Dave points to the unifentified man.

Black, messy hair, and rectangular glasses. It matches Bro's descriptions of Uncle John.

* * *

_He only agreed to this picture for posterity. There's no way he wouldn't have a picture of the day we got Bro._

_He... I don't know how to explain it. He'd fallen a few times before, and it wasn't very..._ (Strangely enough, Dave pauses. His voice wavers a bit, but he quickly regains his composure.) _If you look close, you can see some of the cast on his left ankle._

* * *

As if eager to change the topic, Dave goes to the next picture.

Several years have passed between this photo and the last. Now, Bro is at least four. He stands between Karkat and Dave. Bro holds Dave's hand, and his other rests on the armrest of Karkat's new chair—what appears to be the large, bulky electric wheelchair, which gathers dust in the living room.

"Bro's first day of school," is scrawled across the bottom of the photo. The script is cramped, all caps, and written in silver Sharpie.

* * *

_Karkat went down pretty quick after that. He hid it well, though. I don't know how old we were, and I don't really care enough to figure it out. All I know is that most of what Bro remembers of Karkat is this._

_It doesn't show in this picture, but he always had a lap belt on. He had this clever idea of making them look like regular belts, but you could tell when you got closer._

(Dave pauses. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back, chewing pensively on his lip. Eventually, he regathers his composure.) _It really got him. Bro always had a soft spot for Kar, and I... I never should have left him to do the things I didn't want to do. But it's all in the past, I suppose._

_Bro's first day, he wanted to show everyone his dads. He brought both of us in, and we were pretty popular. Kar was a hit; kids loved sitting in his lap and letting him zoom around in his goddamned chair. No one gave a fuck about my credentials as the director of Sweet Bro._

* * *

The next picture is similar. Now, though, Bro seems to be middle school age. He stands beside Karkat, his hand once again resting on the armrest. Now, though, there's some tension between the two.

Again, Dave pauses. He seems hesitant to continue.

"You don't need to keep going," Dirk says.

Dave shakes his head. He continues, albeit with less enthusiasm than before.

* * *

_By the time Bro hit middle school, kids weren't too keen on Karkat. Bro got a lot of flak, and everyone acted as if he was contagious. I really didn't help, seeing as I made Karkat do most of the disciplining._

_It really beat him down. Bro did his best to keep his distance from Kar. He didn't want us picking him up in the van, so Karkat stopped coming to pick him up from school._

_At some point Karkat tried to intervene. He went to talk with some of the parents of the kids harassing Bro, and it... Let's just say it didn't do shit. It made it worse, really, and I don't think Bro ever really forgave Kar for that._

* * *

"FUCK!" Dave exclaims. He leans back in his recliner and lets forth a pained groan. "God... I fucked up. I..." He rises from his chair and wanders off, leaving behind his now-thoroughly-confused grandson.

While one part of Dirk urges him to follow Dave, he doesn't. He's not entirely sure what has happened, but he doesn't want to meddle.

He decides to stay behind, and only intervene if the need arises.

For now, he contemplates what Dave has said.

It makes sense. Bro rarely speaks of Karkat, and, when he does, it's fleeting.

Curiosity, however, is powerful; it draws Dirk to the video cabinet, from which he grabs some videos. All of them align with the years Bro would have been in middle school, and all of them are marked with red.

Flipping through the disks, most of them are mundane. School plays, field trips, and vacations. One stands out, though. It seems to be the only one that hasn't been retouched by Karkat, and it's title remains the same. "School social / Middle school year one."

Driven by some strange desire to delve deeper into the issue, Dirk slips the DVD into the player. There's a moment's pause, then, the video plays.

* * *

The first few minutes of the video consist of the usual antics. Typical family dynamics. Dave explains that he's acquired a new camera, which mounts inside of his beloved shades, and that he is looking forward to seeing Bro off for his first day of school.

Then, the video shifts. The camera focuses on Karkat, who nervously muses to Dave. "Middle schoolers aren't the nicest people, Strider," he mutters, nervously tapping at the joystick controller for his chair. "I really don't think this is a good idea."

"They're the same kids from before," Dave reassures, adjusting Karkat's tie. "They know you."

"I really don't know," Karkat grumbles. "I think I'm making a fucking massive mistake. Sitting me in a hot tub with fifteen goddamned toasters all floating in it would probably be more advisable than this."

Dave laughs.

Karkat let's forth a stifled huff of discomfort. The fingers of his other hand, which rests in his lap, tense unnaturally.

Perhaps out of habit, Dave reacts immediately. He grabs Karkat's hand and massages it, stopping when the muscles relax. "It'll be finer than the most expensive wine. If anything happens, I'll rough those punks up."

 

The video jumps ahead, and the old pop music indicates that the social is in progress. Dave seems to be acting as Karkat's shadow, following him everywhere.

"Yeah, I brought my dads along as volunteer chaperones," Bro, in the foreground, explains to some unknown middle schooler. "You've met them before."

The other kid nods. "Mr. Strider," he greets, offering a casual handshake to Dave. "And..."

"You can call Karkat Mr. Strider, too. He doesn't mind," Bro laughs.

The other kid, however, doesn't seem amused. Rather, he eyes Karkat over with a pointed wariness. "Yeah. I'm sure he doesn't mind much, does he? I'm surprised he isn't drooling everywhere."

There's a long pause before anyone speaks, and the first to do so is Karkat. It's obvious that he's trying to hold his tongue. "Peter, right? We've met before, and—"

"Get the freak out of here," interjects Bro's companion, Peter. "Dave can stay, though. He's cool."

"I..." Bro hesitates. He glances towards Dave and Karkat for a moment, then towards his so-called friend. "Does everyone think that?"

"Yeah, dude. That's why no one else is hanging with you. Drop the vegetable and join the actual party," Peter shrugs. He buries his hands in his pockets, then wanders off.

Bro seems to take this to heart. He turns to Dave and Karkat and offers the pair a shitty, apologetic look. "Crabdad, do you mind...?"

"No... fuck..." Karkat stammers. His chair lurches forwards, into the refreshments table. Snacks scatter across the floor, and an errant cup of soda topples onto Karkat, staining his pastel red vest.

 

Another skip.

Dave sits alongside Karkat, presumably on a bench outside of the social. His arm is wrapped around his husband's shoulders, and he says little.

 

Now, there's a large bowling alley.

Balloons float from practically every conceivable surface. A large cake is set atop a folding table, and a lively commotion fills the air.

"We're having Dirk's birthday party today, so..." Dave pauses. He turns, towards Karkat, and pushes his chair forwards. "You sure you want to do this?"

Karkat raises his left brow. A large grey pillow supports his head and neck.

"Hm?" Dave pauses. "Not really?"

Both brows are raised. A weak cough escapes Karkat.

"Yeah, Kar, you're getting sick. I'm taking you back home. Come on." Dave advances forward.

Karkat objects. "Fuck no," he rasps, his voice surprisingly soft. "I'm staying here." Another cough.

Dave groans. He steps away. "You can barely move, you stubborn jackass."

"It's Dirk's tenth birthday." Karkat pauses before continuing. "Fuck you, I'm not missing this."

"If something happens..."

 

The video jumps ahead, though the time stamp seems to say only an hour and a half or so has passed.

"No one showed," Dave mutters, narrating the apparent gap in filming. "I kept Bro occupied by playing a few rounds, and..." His voice cracks. The camera turns from a dejected ten-year-old to Karkat.

His eyes are half-closed, and his breathing is slow and shallow. "I should have taken you home, dude. I'm sorry."

Karkat offers a weak half-smile. His right brow rises.

"Its not really okay, but..."

The sound of sirens begins to slowly fade in.

An unfamiliar voice, presumably a staff member, interrupts. "Do you need anything, Mr. Strider, or...?"

"Nah. Thanks. I'm good." Perhaps because of nerves, Dave's southern drawl is back. It's obvious, and it's strong.

"Kar?" Dave nudges his husband.

A weak wheeze serves as a response. A frown crosses his face, and his brows furrow.

"It's not your fault. Things happen." Dave reaches out. He massages Karkat's chest. "Yeah, we're at the bowling alley," he says, presumably to someone else. (By Dirk's estimates, taking everything into account, it's a 911 operator.) "Um... Respiratory distress. Like, damn. I'm not sure this is just distress. This is, like, a respiratory panic attack." The statement is punctuated with a nervous and insincere laugh. "Yeah. Yeah. I hear the sirens. Thanks for the prompt response."

(All things considered, Dirk can't help but think that this might just be the most disastrous party he's ever seen.)

"Bro? BRO!" Dave calls, and a puffy-eyed ten-year-old steps forward. "I'll make this up to you, kiddo, I promise. I... Kar? Kar!?" The focus turns back to Karkat.

His eyes are closed, and neither his name being called nor the variety of prods Dave offers elicit a response.

"Shit. Fuck." For the first time in any of the videos Dirk has seen, Dave's guard slips. The worry is obvious in his voice. He reaches his hand out and, without seeming to really notice, he runs his fingers through his husband's greying hair. "Um... Yeah. Yeah, I'm still here. Upgrade distress to failure... No, it hasn't been that long. No, I..."

There's a loud commotion, presumably the doors opening, and the video cuts.

* * *

Dave doesn't return. The door to the room he once shared with Karkat is locked.

Dirk leaves with without saying goodbye, and a rather pointed sense of discomfort. It's like a bad taste in his mouth, but he's not sure what that taste is.


	6. A Quiet Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth visit.

The photos Dave took down yesterday remain on the table beside his armchair in the living room.

When Dirk arrives, he finds his grandfather asleep in Karkat's old wheelchair. He doesn't bother him; the old man probably needs his sleep. Instead, he wanders into the den. There, he finds a stack of old DVD's. All of them bear the red tape, indicative of Dave filming, and a note is stuck on top. "Yesterday was probably depressing. Here are some happier videos if you're interested."

The first DVD bears a later date than the ones Dirk watched earlier. Doing the math, Bro should be about eighteen in these videos. He doesn't bother looking at the title.

* * *

The video opens with Karkat in the center of the frame. His hair is fully grey, and he's dressed in a custom suit. A cherry red tie—one, presumably, to match Dave's—sits, lopsided, against this light grey shirt. A tube runs around both ears, meeting at a piece fitted beneath his nose, like some sort of oxygen line. When he speaks, his voice is softer and hoarser, but his personality is perfectly intact. "Fuck you, Strider. Fuck you with a rusted guard rail. I know you're filming this."

"I can do what I want," counters Dave. The smirk is audible in his voice. "Besides, it's the premier of our new movie. We need this on film." He reaches forwards and adjusts Karkat's tie, then kneels to tie his husband's shoes. When he's done, he stands. He fastens a belt across Karkat's chest, just below his armpits. "Looking fine, like aged wine."

"Yeah, and you still look like a fucking tool." Karkat smirks. With some effort, he lifts his left arm to rest on the joystick. "I'm not even sure why I'm here. This is  _your_ movie."

"You were Creative Director Vantas."

"Whatever." Karkat rolls his eyes.

 

A news banner runs across the bottom of the screen, identifying Dave and Karkat. "Dave Strider and Karkat Vantas: The Strider Films Duo." The interviewer is identified as Douglas Davis. (Dirk has no doubt that the initials of this particular interviewer were the butt of many jokes between his grandfathers.)

Dave appears closer to his current appearance, albeit with less wrinkles. He retains his trademark shades, and his hair is now pure white.

"Reviewers have praised the costume designs for  _Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff 2_ as industry innovators," Douglas says, his ugly pompadour wobbling in the wind. "Mr. Strider, what was your secret?"

Dave shrugs. As per usual, he keeps his so-called Media Face—an enigmatic look of no particular emotion whatsoever. "My husband was the creative director. Ask him."

"Well, then, Mr. Vantas, what was  _your_ secret?" inquires Douglas, holding the microphone closer to Karkat.

This results in every sound picking up on the video. A machine wheezes periodically, presumably pumping air into the tubing. "My friend, Kanaya, did most of the clothing. The costumes were made to look a bit [fucked] up, anyhow," he snickers. The commentary is censored, but, knowing his grandfather, Dirk can easily guess what he said. "I added in the later effects to make it look like a JPEG artefact."

"Mhm." Douglas nods sagely, as if Karkat has explained the meaning of the universe. "Not to be rude, but some fans are curious, Mr. Vantas. How did you do that in your... current state?"

Karkat rolls his eyes. He grumbles something under his breath, then offers a forced smile. "I still have control over some of my left arm, and I've taught myself alternate techniques. It can be tedious, but it's not exactly hard."

Again, Douglas nods. "Thank you, Mr. Vantas. And, Mr. Strider, what was your vision for this film?"

"I wanted to make a worthy follow-up to a classic. This was a long process, obviously, but I cranked that [shit] out like I was grinding Warcraft levels." Dave straightens his tie. "Karkat and I both collaborated on the visual look, and the story was meant to be a tribute to older fans. At the same time, we wanted to bring the franchise into the new age. Effects were added, and the story was tweaked extensively."

 

The image fades, and the next segment also seems to be pulled from a news broadcast. This particular interviewer is identified as Sandra Frank. She begins with Karkat, offering him a patronizing smile beforehand. "So, Mr. Vantas, you seem to be doing well."

Karkat responds by raising his brows. He offers the interviewer a thin, annoyed smile.

For a moment, Dave lets his Media Face slide. He laughs, but quickly returns to his usual apathetic expression. "Take that as a nod."

"Understood." Sandra, again, offers a painfully forced smile. It's obvious that she's unsure of how to approach this. "Your creative work is unparalleled, Mr. Vantas. You're an inspiration to many."

"I'd rather be a role model than some sort of poster boy for inspiration porn, but I'm [fuck]ing fine with whatever you jack[asses] want to do."

A snort of laughter escapes Dave, though his expression doesn't change. He folds his arms across his chest and stares idly at something off-screen.

"Well, then," stammers the interviewer, "Um... Your creative direction made Strider Films' most recent release a cinematic art piece. What were your sources of inspiration?"

"JPEG artefacts," Karkat responds bluntly. He tilts the chair back a bit, then forwards, to its original position. "My primary inspiration was traditional art, which I blended with..." his voice catches in his throat. His right hand, which rests in his lap, curls into a tight fist. As he had before, Dave massages it, but he makes sure to keep Karkat as the primary focus. "I... [Fuck]. [Shit]. Where was I? Oh. [Fuck]ing balls. Yeah. I blended traditional art with modern digital aesthetic touches. My goal was to make a sort of surreal world, where everything hangs in this liminal-as-[fuck] space."

"Interesting. And the two of you are..."

"Married," Karkat interrupts, cutting off whatever assumption the interviewer was about to make. "Dave and I have been married for years. Twenty? Thirty? Something like that." By now, the muscles have relaxed.

Dave steps back.

The interviewer continues, still fumbling with the situation. "And you also designed the sets?"

"Well, I obviously didn't [fuck]ing build them. I don't have an augmentative exoskeleton yet, so, yes, I designed them. We forwarded some of them to the media outlets to show off."

On cue, the screen briefly displays a variety of detailed sketches. The handwriting is Dave's, but the precise lines and additional annotations are obviously Karkat's.

As the images flash across the screen, the interview continues. A slight rasping noise is heard, though it fades out. (Dirk assumes the microphone was pulled back, or that they switched to the over-the-ear headset both Dave and Karkat are wearing.) "Yeah, I reviewed those. They're fantastic. You instructed Dave to make those?"

"I don't share my art supplies," snaps Karkat. "I did those. He wrote some of the major notes on them."

"Oh." Sandra stutters to an awkward pause.

"Yeah, I made all the drawings. They're mostly digital, with later touches added traditionally by Dave on the prints. It's a systematic approach, something like some sort of [fuck]ing Ford assembly line, I guess."

"Yes. Thank you, Mr. Vantas..." The interviewer offers a final smile.

 

The next video shows the after-party.

Dave, as Dirk expected, sits alongside Karkat. His plate is piled high with what appears to be the world's unhealthiest burger. (Dirk guesses it's about six inches tall, and stuffed with who-knows-what.) Karkat, meanwhile, seems to have refused all but a glass of water. Both seem to be enjoying themselves, and the party is understandably loud. Interviewers sometimes approach, only to be turned away. From time to time, someone approaches, asking for an autograph. When this happens, Dave signs his name, and stamps Karkat's.

The straw on Karkat's chair seems to be wired to move on its own, as pulls back when Karkat drinks water, then returns to its former place when he's done.

"This is the most fucking ridiculous release party ever. Why don't they just carry us around on goose feather pillows?" Karkat laughs, those it's turned to more of a series of hoarse wheezes. "I hate to say it, but it's fun."

"Of course it is, you twit," Dave grins, examining his glass of beer, "I planned it."

* * *

"That party was the headbanger of the century," Dave says, startling Dirk. He stands in the doorway, and a nostalgic grin is spread across his face. "We left Bro at home to go, and he partied it up with his Uncle John. I'm pretty sure he was relieved to not have Karkat around, too..." The smile fades slightly, but Dave shrugs it off. He enters, drops into his usual recliner, and yawns. He stretches his arms far above his head, then eyes Dirk over. "We had some good times, Karkat and I. When we were younger, we could really fuck a place up. Well... We  _could_ , but Karkat never let me."

"My dad still has a thing against Karkat, doesn't he?" Dirk asks.

Dave nods. "Yeah. It's a complicated thing. I'm not sure I completely get it, but I'm not really up for doing that sort of shit."


	7. Visitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fifth visit

When Dirk arrives for his next visit, he's greeted by his grandfather. The man wears a pair of tattered jeans and a faded graphic tee, which bears the Strider Films logo.

A large, dusty portrait of Karkat has been moved into the living room. It leans against the glass in front of the fireplace, and it has a commanding presence.

"Found him lounging around in upstairs storage yesterday night," Dave explains. "Not sure how he ended up there. Bro said he hadn't seen it in a while last I checked."

Dirk studies the portrait. Against the off-white and gold suit ensemble he's wearing, it's obvious that Karkat's skin is a deep, rich, darker mid-range brown. His jaw is set, and his untamable hair is pure black. The look on his face is, like his husband's, enigmatic—an odd cross between a smile and a thin-lipped scowl. He's much younger than Dirk has seen in the past few photos and videos.

"He was a looker," Dave whistles. "Man, once I stopped hating him I went straight to wanting a piece of that ass."

Dirk can't help but laugh at the commentary. "Really?"

"Definitely." Dave grins. "He was on debate team throughout high school and college, too, and he was hot when he got pissed off at people." Here, there's a brief pause. However, Dave quickly picks up where he left off. "I wouldn't have stayed with him as long as I did if I wasn't absolutely batshit crazy for the fucker."

Dirk nods.

"So, anyhow, I have some flowers and shit. I've got myself an appointment with the old folks' taxi, and I wanted to know if you'd like to visit the grave with me. Morbid field trip, but it's not like you have a choice. You can't stay here alone, according to Bro's rules." Dave smirks.

Dirk shrugs. "Sure. Sounds exciting," he mutters. As the words leave his mouth, he sees the taxi arrive.

Dave (naturally) locks up the house, and the pair depart. By Dave's report, they'll be back long before Bro's pickup time of 6:00.

 

The cemetery isn't that far away. It's about fourty minutes round trip, and it's one of the ritzier ones. (Obviously.)

Dave seems to know the route by heart. He keeps his bouquet of roses clutches close to his chest as he cuts through the grave markers like a focused laser beam.

After about ten minutes, the journey ends. The marker is modest, and it's set amidst the roots of a flourishing willow tree. "Karkat Vantas, 79 years and 364 days. Father, Husband, and Friend — 'Leave me alone, I'm trying to sleep.'"

"Was that epitaph planned?" This is the first question Dirk has.

Dave answers with a smirk. "They wouldn't let us put an F-bomb, so, no. The design is original, though. He didn't want anything fancy or ornate. He always had a thing for these frumpy trees, too, so I had one planted as a strategic location." As he speaks, Dave flips the provided flower vase. He places his bouquet in, adjusts it, and steps back.

"So," Dirk begins.

"What?" Dave finishes, sitting on an unmarked stone bench beneath the tree. "This is on Karkat's plot, too, so you can use it." After this, Dave points to the empty spot beside Karkat's grave. "That'll be my spot. Two old fucks, together forever."

"I guess he'd find that nice?"

"Maybe." Dave shrugs. He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the willow tree. "I'm not real sure on where I stand when it comes to dying and all that, but I like to think he's still around, somehow.

"It's kind of weird, y'know? You know someone for sixty-some years, and, then, they're gone. And the last thing you said to them was, 'Sure, yeah, I'll pick up your heart meds on the way back from the massive orgy that'll undoubtedly go down in traffic court." Dave frowns.

Dirk does, too, but he can't help but ask, "What the fuck?"

* * *

_The day Karkat died, I was in traffic court. Something about speeding. I was going ten over, and someone else was having a bad day. Whatever the case, I wound up in traffic court. They ended up letting me off the hook with some mandatory classes._

_Now, I'd had this big party planned for him. His birthday was the next day, after all. 'Course, he was in the hospital. He spent pretty much the entire last year there._

_I was on the phone with Bro, trying to see if he'd come to the party. He said no, same as always. Too busy, too tired. He still has that grudge, and I'm not getting into that shit._

_Anyhow, when I was done calling Bro, I got a call from the hospital. The doctor told me pretty straight up that he had died. It was a real quiet, peaceful way to go. He went for one of his usual Old Folks' Naps, and never woke up._

_Obviously, the party was cancelled. We turned all of the supplies into funeral shit. Well, at least, we saved what we could._

* * *

"Oh." Dirk mutters.

"It is what it is," Dave shrugs. He folds his arms across his chest and yawns. "Wish I'd picked a nicer bench. This one sucks."

"Yeah."

"Well, our time is almost up, anyhow." To confirm this, Dave checks his watch. "Yup. The taxi'll be here soon."


	8. Reminisce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth visit

The next visit begins with about as much fanfare as is thrown when you find some roadkill. The door to the house is unlocked, and Dave is asleep.

Dirk takes the time to set himself up in the den. He hollows out a spot on the sofa.

Some of the unwatched videos from before still sit on the floor, and it seems there's little else to do. Most of Dirk's friends are busy, after all. Roxy is in Chicago, Jane is at some sort of cooking summer class, and Jake is in Peru.

"Whatever." Dirk shrugs. He pops in a random disk.

* * *

"Well, shit." A map of what appears to be the early stages of SBAHJland is spread before the camera. "I can't figure out a damn thing on this."

"Give it to me, then, you sniveling asswipe." A hand enters the frame, and the camera pans to a young Karkat. By now, he's in possession of the map. He toys with the wheel locks of his manual chair and furrows his brows. "It looks like they scribbled this out with a crayon shoved up their anus."

"I mean, that's the aesthetic," declares Dave.

"Not for a map, you soggy fucking peanut!" Karkat rolls his eyes. "Look, I'd be lost as FUCK right now if I hadn't helped design this massive, steaming pile of putrid shit in the first place!"

"Chill, buddy," Dave mocks, "You'll give yourself an aneurism. And then I'll be the one who has to clean it up, and that doesn't bode well for the future of the park."

"You insufferable shit. You're a blight upon the world. A blemish upon the face of the world's natural beauty and grace."

"I love you too, asshole." Dave smirks.

Karkat rolls his eyes.

 

The video skips forward. A larger-than-normal time has passed between the cuts, as this one is timestamped about three months later than the first. Now, Karkat sits beneath a neon yellow umbrella at one of the amusement park cafés. He stirs what appears to be a banana smoothie, and offers a loud, thoughtful sigh.

"That's all yu have to say about our park's grand opening!?" scoffs Dave. "Liven it up a little, Kar."

"I'll liven it up the minute you cease to be so fucking lively."

"Fantastic!! This is great for the archives." Dave snickers.

"Do you really have to video tape everything?"

"Far in the future, aliens will take over the world. Sweet Bro must be remembered, and my digital archive will attest to our collective artistic genius, Karkat." Dave's voice is solemn. While it's obvious he's joking, he keeps up his emotional ruse impeccably.

Karkat, meanwhile, responds with a groan of frustration. "I don't fucking know you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short. Sorry!


End file.
